Bedtime Story: Reflections Of The Past: Air: Chapter 13

Reflections of the Past A Story of the Guardians of the Well By Vanda Inman These words are written in honour of the guardians of the past,

And those who journey in the name of love,

Light and all that is good.

The answers to all the questions we might ever ask can be found in the ground beneath our feet.

Part 2 Air The Story of St Clodorus The Holy Spring and the Village Church Chapter 13 Spring Equinox It was the time of balance,

When day and night were equal.

Rhiannon was always grateful when this time of year arrived,

Because it meant the long summer evenings were just around the corner.

The villagers celebrated the growth of the light with bonfires on the hills,

Decorated eggs and made special cakes,

Much to the disapproval of the brothers,

All the while revelling in the signs of spring around them,

Hanging small bunches of dusty yellow catkins and tiny posies of flowers above the entrances of their homes for good luck.

Yellow chicks hatched,

Birds sang,

And the early morning frost soon gave way to a carpet of greenery,

Amongst which the first spring flowers of celandine,

Primrose and dandelion began to appear.

The gorse became a glory of gold,

And the blackthorn abounded.

The great pinnacle of rock at the far end of the valley was swathed in yellow,

Green and white,

A tower of colour and beauty.

But the brothers did not like the blackthorn flowers,

Nor the delicate mayblossom of the hawthorn,

And would not allow them inside their church.

As evening approached,

And Rhiannon was sure the brothers were safely engaged in prayer,

After a relaxing meal and yet more prayer,

She made her way along the valley to the little church.

Shivering slightly in the cool breeze,

Rhiannon decided she would be relieved when the days lengthened properly,

Allowing more time for wandering along the valley,

Fishing in the river,

Or even helping Dominic with his interminable hoeing and weeding,

If the other brothers did not make too much of a fuss.

Weeding was preferable to the spinning,

Weaving and cooking which was usually expected of girls her age.

She was lucky she was often able to slip away unnoticed,

With only a mild,

Albeit frustrated,

Admonishment upon her return.

Rhiannon had never known her father,

Having lived all her life with her mother and grandmother in their little hut.

But they scraped a living,

And in times of hardship,

Food always appeared on their doorstep.

Rhiannon sometimes questioned her mother about her father,

But could only learn he had been a man of the woods,

Who needed to follow his own destiny.

As she was growing up,

This at times gave Rhiannon a feeling of otherworldliness,

And she spent much of her time wandering the valley alone.

She was also lucky no mention had yet been made of marriage,

Although some girls her age were married with children of their own.

On this evening,

Her mother had asked her to collect the eggs before darkness fell,

Being busy with the care of her own mother,

Who had found the winter months hard,

And Rhiannon obediently picked up the wicker basket,

Although her mind was intent upon visiting the church and the spring which ran behind it.

As she was about to leave,

Her grandmother called from her pallet in the corner of the room.

Rhiannon knelt beside the tiny,

Wizened frame,

Knowing she was near her journey's end and had been lucky to survive this long.

But if the gods permitted,

Maybe she would live to see the flowers bloom again in the summer sun.

Here,

Take this.

She beckoned Rhiannon closer and whispered in her ear,

Her bright eyes darting around to ensure they were alone.

It is your heritage.

She fumbled beneath the pallet of straw and brought out a small,

Leather pouch,

Which she pressed into Rhiannon's hand.

When the time comes,

You will know what to do,

Was all she said,

And then her eyes closed and she fell into a sudden sleep.

Knowing there was no point in questioning her further,

Rhiannon stowed the pouch in her clothing and continued on her way,

Ignoring the clucking chickens and their eggs,

But taking the path to the church instead.

She pushed open the plain,

Wooden door to find the church still and peaceful in the gathering twilight,

Save for one beeswax candle burning on the altar,

Casting a yellow glow through the gloom.

The brothers had spent much of their time persuading the villagers to attend what was now called the village church on Sundays,

When they were supposedly free of their daily chores.

Although Rhiannon knew well enough,

Daily chores never ended.

In Rhiannon's mind,

The people would have been better to spend the time working on their own patches of ground to feed the mouths of their families than praying,

But to have said as much would have been,

In Cleda's words,

Blasphemous.

He had become quite agitated when she shared the thought with him.

Although she had the feeling Dominic's ideas ran along the same lines as her own.

As far as he was concerned,

All anyone needed was around them in the fields,

As much as in a building,

Even one dedicated to God.

As Rhiannon's eyes became accustomed to the gloom,

The granite altar,

With the intricately carved wooden cross above it,

Stood out against the shadows.

Even she had to admire it.

The stone surface of the altar sparkled with star-like glints in the light of the flickering flame,

And the wooden cross,

Carved of course by brother Dominic,

Who was skilled in such matters,

Added a beauty all of its own.

The cross sat in a perfect circle,

Inscribed with plants and animals.

Rhiannon knew when Dominic was not working in the gardens,

He spent many hours carving the wood he collected as he walked the countryside,

And had fashioned the crosses which the brothers wore outside their habits.

The building was tiny,

But scrupulously clean.

The walls whitewashed,

Giving an eerie glow in the dim interior.

But to Rhiannon,

The wonder of sitting in the little church was hearing the trickle of water,

Which burst its way from the rock face behind the building and ran down to the river,

Passing the church on its way.

Although she never really understood why,

Rhiannon always felt this to be of great importance,

And the true essence of the place,

And all it stood for.

Pulling the simple wooden door closed behind her,

She made her way around the rear of the building,

To the square granite basin,

Into which the water trickled.

Perhaps the brothers were aware of its significance,

Although their worship was focused on the altar and cross inside the chapel,

For they had constructed a place for the water to collect before it continued to the river.

Although the villagers shared a communal well,

Many preferred the water found behind the church,

And the women made regular visits there.

Under this pretext,

Offerings were left in and around the spring.

A twist of grass and a flower,

Or a few strands of hair tied to a nearby tree,

For the people had more faith in the spirits of the spring coming to their aid in times of trouble than in the gods of which the brothers spent so much time preaching.

Rhiannon knelt to run her fingers through the warm silkiness of the water and felt a stab of anger.

There should be women here,

Offering advice and healing,

As there used to be,

As she should be doing,

As was her birthright and heritage,

Rather than the brothers,

Despite their good intentions.

The women of the village should have no need to come under cover of collecting water to make their offerings,

Then bowing to another god on one particular day of the week,

Because they had been told to do so.

Rhiannon sighed and straightened up,

Brushing her wet hands against her skirt.

A fox barked in the distance and an owl hooted.

Somewhere nearby,

The undergrowth rustled,

And she imagined it to be the brown stout she sometimes saw when no one else was around.

It was at times like this when Rhiannon felt at one with the land,

With the valley,

The spring,

With God,

If that was how the feeling could be described.

Brother Dominic was right.

There was no need of scripts and learning.

Everything was right here,

Just waiting to be touched.

She thrust her hands deep into her clothing and her fingers closed upon her grandmother's leather pouch,

Which she had completely forgotten.

Slowly undoing the drawstring,

She tipped the contents into the palm of her hand.

The first object to fall out was a spearhead.

Dark brown,

Smooth and beautifully carved,

Slim with serrated edges and a sharp point.

She knew it to be too large for an arrowhead,

For it lay strangely heavy in her hand,

And she frowned.

Why had her grandmother given her this?

What did she mean by it being her heritage?

And what was she supposed to do with it?

Rhiannon's hand closed tightly around it,

The warmth of her body mingling with the coolness of the stone itself,

And suddenly,

As if standing and watching from a great distance,

She saw a young man upon a high rock hurling a spear into a golden sunset.

She blinked,

Brought back to the present with a jolt,

Unaccustomed to such visions and disturbed by the intensity of the sight and colours,

And she carefully laid the spearhead on the mossy granite of the springs basin.

Still feeling slightly dazed,

Rhiannon knelt over the water,

Intending to wash her face in its warm silkiness and clear her mind,

Soothed by the constant reflections of the light upon its surface.

But just as she was about to plunge her hands into the water,

She paused,

Unable to move,

For the face staring back at her was not her own.

Rhiannon blinked.

The face in the water blinked also,

But did not fake.

Rhiannon smiled,

And so did the other girl,

For girl it was,

Perhaps slightly younger than herself,

With short,

Dark,

Curling hair,

And overcoming her initial fear,

Rhiannon found herself totally entranced.

Who are you?

She finally asked,

But the girl only smiled,

Then looked grave and held something up for Rhiannon to see.

She gasped,

It was the spearhead,

Which even now lay on the moss-covered stone beside her.

Rhiannon darted it a quick glance,

Then looked at the girl once more,

Shrugging helplessly,

For she could not understand what was required of her.

The vision changed.

The world within the spring opened up into a landscape of snow,

The girl standing with a great white owl upon her arm,

A spear in her hand,

And all at once Rhiannon knew this to be the girl who had been the first guardian of the spring so long ago,

The one in the story she loved so much.

The vision began to fade,

And the last thing Rhiannon saw before the waters returned to normal was the girl,

Once more holding the spearhead and gazing imploringly at Rhiannon.

Then she was gone.

Rhiannon sat back on her heels,

Drained by the events of the last few moments.

Her hand closed around the spearhead,

And without thinking,

Unable to comprehend what it could all possibly mean,

She fumbled to return it to the leather pouch,

But as she did so,

Her fingers brushed another object lying inside,

Which she gently shook onto her palm.

This time she looked at the object with complete puzzlement,

For in her hand lay a wooden pendant,

Delicately carved with a tree,

Spreading its perfectly balanced branches all around.

Rhiannon blinked again,

Slowly beginning to comprehend the message of the girl.

Everything began to make sense.

The tradition of the Women of the Spring,

And the need to fight for it,

Just as the first Guardian had so long ago.

And indeed it was her heritage,

And perhaps this was a message the time had come to fight again for what was rightfully hers.

Rhiannon jumped up,

Filled with expectancy,

Renewed hope and determination.

She was a Guardian of the Spring.

She had seen a vision telling her so,

And held the very spearhead from the stories of old.

She thought briefly of Cleda.

Much as she loved him,

He was wrong,

So wrong.

Rhiannon raised her face to the sky.

She could catch the scent of springtime on the air,

And the days would now lengthen until they became much longer than the nights.

Perhaps then things would change.

For the first time in her life,

Rhiannon felt a power surge through her.

It seemed to well up from the depths of the ground below,

And sing in her head,

Like the trickly music of the water beside which she was standing.

If things did not change with the turning of the year,

It would be no more than her duty to make them.

But as to the meaning of the carved wooden pendant,

She had no idea at all.